


Ritual of the Beacon

by dev_chieftain



Category: Dragon Age 2
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-05-03
Updated: 2011-05-03
Packaged: 2017-10-18 22:51:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/194166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dev_chieftain/pseuds/dev_chieftain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a prompt on DA kink meme:</p><p>Anon wants to see Leto become Fenris, with his memories being gradually washed away by the pain of relieving the tattoos. Bonus points most sweet if he's very confused and helpless afterward, and Danarius takes advantage, teaching him from the start who's in charge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beacon

**Author's Note:**

> I am desperate to prove that Danarius's interest in Fenris was largely asexual.

There is a pit in the center of Danarius's vast estate, in the twisting tower. Here, he does his most incredible magics, he researches the secrets of the ancients and he crafts new spells from the very ether. Here, he once realized his life's work and will soon, again, perform great wonders. The air is always thick here with the taste of magic, a sour, citrus taste.

Leto stands in the center of the room, naked and proud, his eyes averted from his master's. He has won this privilege through hard battle, through a lifetime of unwavering loyalty. His trust is unique, almost painfully innocent. He has never questioned his master's orders; when Danarius told him, 'Only the strongest of mind and body can be a satisfactory subject for the ritual, Leto. You will have to fight many,' he answered:

'No, Master; many will have to fight me.'

Now he lifts his arm, watching with obvious curiosity as the magister apprentices paint runes on his skin in blood collected from the palms of his competitors. When they direct him to lift his face, turn this way or that, he obediently complies. His eyes are curious, almost intelligent, and his dark hair cannot conceal the way he looks at each mark intently, as if he believes they are words inscribed into his flesh. Of course, they are only symbols, but let the elf have his illiterate delusions. Danarius doubts that Leto has yet realized the nature of the sacrifice he has offered to make. He did his best to be discouraging.

He is not happy with these results; he has been happy enough, with Leto guarding his bed, fighting by his side, dependable and loyal as any man could ask for these last ten years. He is more than a capable fighter and, sometimes, they have talked of other things. Danarius may be growing older but he never wed, never had children, never experienced the pleasure of having a family of his own. There are scandalous rumors about him now, rumors he has always found amusing. Ah, how Leto would blush! A true slave knows that his place is by his master's side, inextricable, a shadow. Such a creature can never be treated with true feeling. Give a man a sip of freedom, and he will grow drunk on it, obsessed with it. Give him a taste of the sky, and he will tear down every wall to see it.

Danarius knows, and so he has never given Leto anything but orders, never taken anything from him but his proper service. A slave who is never abused will not mind if he lives in a gilded cage, forever bound to his perch. These are simple truths.

Few magisters appreciate their importance so deeply as does Danarius.

Tonight, when the rest of the household has gone to sleep, they will complete the ritual with the crates of lyrium it had cost him so very much to import. The apprentices will have less delicate work then, pooling their strength and channeling their power into Hadriana, who will hold Leto perfectly still. It is no failing of his that they must bind him; no living creature, intelligent or not, could withstand this process without moving. Danarius, then, will take up the shaping knife, piercing skin down to the bone and packing the wounds with lyrium.

He has never performed such a ritual before, though he has read of many variants used in the ancient Imperium. The garbled notes of these faraway times are almost beyond comprehension, and Danarius has spent much of his life recreating those few cultural practices he can decipher from their ancestors.

It is his dearest hope that this experiment will be a work of art: his masterpiece. Transformed with power, if all goes well, then Leto will become a living testament to the power of mages, granted the ability to see the Fade as a magister does, to serve as a beacon for others, the ultimate tool of wide-spread domination. If the notes Danarius has found are correct, the ancient Imperium had several such persons, each in a designated city where great magical power welled, who permitted the Imperium's reach to spread so far. Small wonder that their predecessors had sought to recreate the power of the somniari artificially. Such an incredible power, and so rare!

For a fleeting moment, he meets the elf's eyes, and there is a strange sense of fear in Leto's expression, a longing for reassurance. Danarius smiles at him tightly, trying not to convey his own disappointment at the elf's success.

Let him have his victory; even if the ritual is executed perfectly, he will never be a simple bodyguard again.

***

Leto doesn't think in written words but pictures. They are complicated pictures, etched carefully with the few symbols he knows of the Mother Tongue, but he tries to listen and be quick for his Master, and he has always wanted to be helpful. Here under the stars, in the last seconds before the ritual begins, he has a stirring of doubt. All his life, he has wanted his mother and sister to have a chance at freedom. They are unhappy as slaves. They are better than he is; Mother, who served a magister as her apprentice until they were sold, and Varania, who has the same latent talent, itching to be trained. He chose to fight for this honor because he wanted to see them free to pursue that path. He spent many hours training when he should have been asleep, and served Master very well, hoping to please him. He used their freedom as a favor, and buoyed himself with the smell and feel of that idea: that his family could be free. And now he is here, standing naked and cold with the bloodmarkings waiting on his skin, singing a song to him that makes his head feel thick and heavy.

And he doubts.

What if, as he has sometimes feared in that private heart that he does not burden anyone with, what if he will fail and die this night? What if his body is not the strongest or fastest, and he did not deserve to win the tourney he has just fought? Will his mother and sister still be awarded their chance? Who will serve his master when he is gone? Who will care for him?

Leto's heart beats hard with fear when he thinks of failure. Though he takes pride in how well he serves, it is shameful to doubt his master's judgment, and Master has said many times today that he never had any doubts of Leto's success. Why then, did Master look on him with sadness?

Will he die this night?

Will there be someone left to be his Master's guard?

As the last crate of Lyrium is split open, he can feel a strange hum in the air and tastes the stuff as the first stinging smoke flies up into the night sky, a blue gasp into a heartless black void. The apprentices take their positions around the circle, Hadriana standing just behind him, and begin. The spell is a hum of power, a brassy chorus in counterpoint to the hypnotic purr of the bloodmarks on his skin. Their soft, sussurus call has fogged his memory, even before Hadriana's fingers touch his shoulder blades and ignite the marks of binding.

He catches his breath, groaning in pain. If he did not know better, he would think someone had kicked him in the stomach. The magic slowly spreads throughout him, lifting him, arms out, his spine searing with the energy of the spell until he is suspended there, dimly aware of the magic's song. It cavorts and chuckles around him, cradles him close. He drowsily breathes it in, and listens intently to it while Master approaches with the shaping knife.

The shaping knife is not a pleasant tool, in Leto's experience. It is usually used to make the ritualistic markings used by those who convert to the way of the Qun. When it is used by Master, it is usually used to open sores or other things like them, so that Master can examine what is inside and determine a cure for it.

Now its short, sharp, precise blade slips into his skin, starting at the knuckles on his right hand: and it hurts, but he is not a person and he knows his hurt is of no import to Master. He tries to keep his breathing steady, eyes heavenward, begging some power he cannot name to give him the strength to bear his pain in silence. The cuts are not the worst thing. They bleed, until he begins to feel cold, and they do not even begin to close, but they only hurt. He has been hurt before.

It is the lyrium that destroys his promise to himself: lyrium, packed into his muscle and against his bone, wedged inside of him. At first it stings; then it shrills up and down his whole body like electricity. Then it seems to come to life inside him, and he screams, feeling all the crawling insects of the world inside his very skin, biting within his flesh, consuming him.

The night is longer than he knew it could be. It runs together, chaos whirling through his mind, clamoring music of magic gone wrong tangling up with incredible, unending pain until he can't even scream anymore. He hangs in the air, suspended by and completely enclosed by magic, until he feels it gritty in his blood, from his chin to the tops of his feet, all throughout his body. The apprentices, exhausted, release him and he cannot stand. His body collapses to the ground, weak from bleeding the night through.

The impact jars his head and he feels something ignite when he tries to push himself up with one hand: fire that scorches through his mind, tearing a gasp from his bloody chest. Clutching his stomach, he lies there, sick unto death, fire and ice and poison seeping through his mind.

Someone's mind.

It comes and goes: sometimes he knows that he is a man, and sometimes he doesn't know what the feet before his face are, or that there is anything beyond them, or that he can turn about and look at the world. Whenever he tries to move it sparks the lyrium against his bones, like flint, and more magic shoots up into his mind, leaching out memories, leaching out entire years of his life, sucking up feelings and skills and heartaches and triumphs.

Someone once held his hand, when his father died. Her red hair fades out of his memory, unimportant. He sees his own reflection, in a mirror belonging to Master, but no longer can identify that that person he saw was himself.

His fingers forget how to operate eating utensils; his body temporarily forgets how to breathe.

He loses all clarity, all coherence. Every blast of lyrium induced hallucination is an eon of pain, lost in a terrifying nightmare realm with scorched plains, floating cities, beasts made of skin lined with teeth and no eyes: they try to lure him, the beasts and people and inanimate things that speak to him there. He is confused and simple, he accepts their help: but for nothing. Then they realize he is not what they thought he was (he isn't sure what) and grow angry and savage him, tearing out pieces of what is left of him until, finally, there is nothing left to take.

Coming back from that strange place, he blinks dizzily until his eyes reach a pathetic sort of agreement on focusing. A-- man, his vague knowledge supplies. An older man, with a cruel smile and worried eyes. Kneeling over him, touching his forehe--

[[ _pain, fever and nausea and organs rebelling inside his body with pain, lifestopping pain, mind-melting, the image of a beast with myriad eyes whose awful sight cannot be evaded, and its six arms each with a sword, and its three heads all elven, smiling as it tells him nothing may live and see it_ ]]

\--they have had to tie his hands to a post so he would stop trying to claw his own eyes out, and the old man is looking at him like he has gone mad. He isn't certain if he has. He freezes, bristling like a wild animal, crouching against the post to which his hands have been tied, suspicious, frightened.

" _Who are you?_ " he demands, hissing in shock. "Who are you? Who am I?"

There is a slight pause, and-- sorrow? no, amusement-- in the old man's eyes. There is an answer, too, but he can't hear it; the magic has started thundering in his head, a cascade of drums like a waterfall of violent roaring, and it makes him bleed from the ears, sinking to his knees, twitching, coughing, begging. They don't offer him anything: the eight younger men and women only take notes as directed by the old man.

He doesn't know why he is bare when they are clothed, but he doesn't like it. He doesn't like how they stare at him, how they watch impassively and some of them smile, rolling their eyes at his pain. His skin throbs with lyrium, lyrium which has burned through and fused into him, becoming a part of him he would rather deny.

The old man is the last one to leave, as night turns into morning and the younger men and woman each bow to their master and turn to go when they have grown tired. They are alone, just him and the old man, for many seconds before either of them speaks.

He asks, trying not to let the panic and pain control his voice, "Why is this happening? Who _are_ you?"

"I am Danarius," says the older man at last, calmly, assertively. His demeanor is iron and his face is not always cruel, but just now it has a sadistic cast. "I am your master."

"I am my own master," he snaps, snarling, fighting against the ropes that keep him tied to the post, yanking against them as he struggles to deliver his impotent physical threat. He does not allow his failure to daunt him. "I will not call you such a thing."

He doesn't know what he was expecting-- surprise, maybe anger-- but instead he only receives a dry laugh. "Call me Danarius, then. And try to remember your own name. Or at least act a little more like a man; you have the look of a caged beast just now."

Fighting is bringing on another attack of those awful, awful visions that make his head feel like it is going to split apart, but he fights through it, blinking away pain-tears and baring his teeth viciously. "I will kill you," he promises, meaning it. "I will break free, and I will kill you."

"I look forward to that," Danaius answers, unfazed. He is so unbothered that it knocks the wind right out of his sails and he succumbs to the attack.

By the time it has passed, even the old man is gone. For three days, they leave him tied to the post, bringing him food (and forcing it down his throat when he rejects it), bringing him drink, bringing buckets of cold water and stinging lye to wash him and his filth away. The attacks come strongly at first, every few minutes tearing away his grip on reality; then only every few hours. By the third day, he has only momentary, jarring flashes of pain and confusion. He is tired and uncomfortable from the position in which he's been hanging, but the pain has nearly gone away completely.

Then, at last, he is let down and brought back inside to Danarius.


	2. Conductor

Seduced by the incredible fantasy of bringing Leto to his knees with barely a touch, Danarius has found himself incapable of doing less than his worst since the ritual was complete. It does not help that Leto's uneducated mind seems to have rendered the goal impossible to realize; when he dreams now he only dreams as anyone does, though Hadriana does delight in reporting that the elf no longer remembers his name in any realm, waking or sleeping, at all. It is hardly Leto's fault that he was inferior to a magically talented specimen, and Danarius does not blame him for the ritual's failure.

The unexpected side effects are troublesome. Even with the marks still raised and red, painfully new where flesh merges with solid lyrium, Leto has become suddenly irresistible to Danarius himself, to the apprentices-- even to curious guests who look on the savage elf with fear. At least Danarius now has the means to power any spell at a moment's notice.

He may have lost one of his most valued slaves, in a way, but Leto's muscles are not ruined, and the lyrium will remain within him for the full length of his long life. No Beacon, but it will do. He gets more than one request from fellow magisters to perform the ritual upon their own bodyguards, if they will provide the lyrium. Because it is wisest to keep this secret to himself, he only agrees to those requests from magisters whose lands lie somewhere far from the isle of Seheron.

This gives him months to prepare, as he waits for their supplies and sacrifices to arrive at his estate, and still curries a favorable image with his political rivals. He would be a fool to do any less. He is careful, cautious, he does his best to hide the original intent of the ritual from those that pry. Let them think all has proceeded as he planned; let them look on Leto and know that this, here, is the only means to truly own a slave. Let them learn to eschew the crude control offered by blood magic when they see how empty Leto's eyes have become, with nary a drop of his master's blood.

It is not Danarius's fault that the elf requires discipline in front of these guests more often than not. He metes it out fairly, as is his right and duty as master. And when he wants to bring Leto to his knees, he touches Leto's chin, just the lightest of contacts, and draws from the lyrium. It only takes an instant: all defiance, all thought and power is ripped from the elf's body by even this tiny display. He collapses bonelessly to his knees, his angry voice turned weak with pain.

Sometimes, he begs.

In the first weeks, and Leto's hair, peppered with white, grows longer, each new milimeter bleached by the magic within him. His brows and other body hair, scant though it is, remain intact. His brows are fierce dark lines, now stark against that once placid face, so often drawn into a scowl or grimace of pain that his obedient demeanor is nearly impossible to remember. He is like a ghost of the man that served by Danarius's side, that slept beside his bed and guarded him without hesitation.

There are tests; Danarius does not fully believe, at first, that Leto's memories are fading alongside the welts of mutilated skin and hard, silver lyrium. Hadriana, perhaps, convinces him to mistrust his senses, for she is frightened of her own interest in the slave and does not like him for it.

When he endeavors to bring the elf's sister in, to show off her training as a magister and make it known that he kept his bargain despite Leto's failure, there is not even a flicker of recognition in the elf's eyes. He stands alert at Danarius's side, rigid with tension, expecting the worst should he fail to impress and bristling at the potential for punishment that he has already come to expect. When he does not greet the girl, Danarius does so for him, introducing her to his 'new pet', which has been his temporary name for the elf, until Leto remembers or Danarius discovers a name he likes better. It's no small feat, giving up a name he has become familiar with speaking over the last ten years. But this, too, is power: intoxicating, delicious power, the power of knowledge that he could share, if he wished, but does not.

Varania is a well-trained slave first, and magister second, as is often the case with elves. She bows to her brother, seeing that he no longer knows her, and if there is a shine of tears to her eyes, Danarius attributes it more to shame at her brother's failure than any other, more intelligent emotion. For years, he championed the savages, enamored of Leto's unusual devotion to the intricacies of language and, moreover, by his dedication as a guard. He can see well enough now that he has lost what he'd had, and perhaps he is bitter about his own foolishness. It is unlikely he will ever find another slave with such potential.

What troubles him most is that he must re-train this creature in all but the most basic and essential skills, up to and including how to eat properly, how to sit. Only Leto's lush vocabulary remains, though it is often wasted now with needless vows to escape and declarations of hatred.

"I will kill you," the elf hisses, when Danarius brings him a training sword and offers it, hilt first. "Why would you give me this?"

With a raised eyebrow, Danarius only crooks his finger, pulling from the raw power that lingers around the elf without even needing to touch him, siphoning away that crackling aura until the elf staggers, dropping to one knee, his eyes flashing with terror as Danarius flips the blade and presses it to his throat.

"Do it," the elf whispers. A thin line opens on his throat where the blade touches, bleeding sluggishly a moment. "Kill me. I will not serve you in this life or the next, and if you delay long enough, I will surely kill you."

Danarius remembers Leto's earnest wish to win the tournament, and smiles fondly. It is sad, this farce their lives have become. Sad that he has, in his anger at himself, already ruined the training of this new person Leto became on that midsummer night. "As I have said before, I look forward to it."

Dropping the sword and releasing his pull on the elf's magical bounty, Danarius crosses his arms over his chest and waits. Slowly, the haze of pain clears from his eyes, and his fingers creep to the blade, itching to wield something-- anything-- even if it cannot possibly protect him from Danarius's wrath.

His breath catches with anticipation, and he glances nervously at the door, the sword, Danarius: he snaps forward with sudden confidence, grabbing the blade, sliding past Danarius and making a mad dash for the door, his bare feet soundless on the cool tile of the floor. With a simple gesture, Danarius catches him just as he is about to pass the threshold with a blast of lightning, stopping him dead in his tracks. When the flash has faded, he is left dazed, staggering with the full force of his weight into the doorframe, the sword slipping from his nerveless fingers.

"Good," Danarius purrs softly. "It would seem that at least some parts of you remember how to act."

Muscles still spasming in response to the electric jolt, Leto leans heavily where he has fallen. His every breath rasps, jerking his body with some subtle undercurrent of pain, as though he feels the bolt striking again and again with the same power as that first impact--

Danarius can't help smiling at the possibilities when he realizes that that is _exactly_ the elf's problem. Perhaps his experiment can be salvaged after all. Not a beacon, but a conductor; there is much to be said for such a tool.

"Get hold of yourself," he orders at length, his thoughts of retraining Leto as his bodyguard scattered by this new, far more tantalizing possibility. "Pick up that sword."

Trembling, the elf does as he was told, not so much frightened as aware. It would be so effortless for Danarius to attack him again, and he knows that his master, at least, will not hurt him unless he makes it necessary, though Hadriana is another matter. Instead of bolting for the door again, he steels himself against the feedback of pain, fighting to keep his breathing even, and waits.

"Very good." Now, Danarius is playing a dangerous game, depending on the elf's ability to retain information from one moment to the next. If they are unable to progress past this point, however, there will be no means of retraining him. That outcome would be failure, and Danarius has already rejected it as unacceptable. He steps closer, just within reach of a swing of the blade, and watches the curl of Leto's lip, the twitch of muscles in his throat, the perfect line of tension in his stomach as he prepares to strike and then _holds back_ that impulse, remaining still.

He speaks, very softly, voice still hoarse. "Why do you want to give me a sword?" And then, after a very sore swallow, he spits the last word with frustrated impotence: "Master."

"Because," Danarius answers patiently, pleased to see Leto under such tight control. "Your job is to guard me. You can do nothing without a weapon; isn't that so?"

Dropping his head, Leto growls in answer.

"What was that?" Danarius steps away, turning his back confidently as he paces the length of his study, stopping beside the heavy, birchwood monstrosity he uses as both a writing desk and alchemical lab in his studies. "I should like to hear that more clearly."

Though he refuses to follow, the elf bitterly repeats himself, loud enough to hear and to pick out the dry cracking of an abused throat. "I fail to see why a magister of your power has need of a swordsman, _master_."

He lifts a hand, as if to cast another bolt, and chuckles at the way the elf immediately ducks, skittering back a step and bringing his sword to bear, even though it is useless. Flushed with anger and shame at his own reaction, the elf snarls irritably, glancing away to try to collect his emotions. Even when he has straightened again, he cannot bring himself to step closer, nor lower the sword. That feral caution suits him so well, Danarius could almost forgive himself for erasing the noble heart of what Leto had been before.

As Danarius laughs and turns back to his desk, searching for blank parchment and a pen, the elf bristles, slowly calming himself, fighting to control his vicious temper. "...may I... ask a question?" he asks, when Danarius sits down and begins to work in earnest at his desk. A raised finger, and he hastily adds, "Master," forgetting to sound quite so grudging as he had before.

"Yes, you may. And take your post."

Hesitation meets this simple command, but after glancing longingly at the door, the elf slowly moves to stand at Danarius's side. A glance out of the corner of his eye tells Danarius that the elf is still struggling with embarrassment and fear, and he keeps at his writing, well aware of the hungry way Leto watches his letters sprawling over the page. It may be an instinct, or a shadow of memory, but apparently some fascinations of his old life remain with the elf.

It is not his way to tell his slaves anything they do not need to know, but he very nearly explains what he is doing, bemused by Leto's evident curiosity. Given time, the elf eventually regains his composure, remembers his question and asks, a trifle miserably,

"Why am I not clothed? All your other slaves are."

"You are, at this moment," Danarius answers simply, keeping his voice perfectly level, lest some of his own anger at himself show through and betray that what he is saying is not entirely true. "At best a very expensive, exotic animal."

He listens with some vague satisfaction to the elf's uncomfortable shifting, the way he swallows nervously.

Danarius shrugs, returning to his letter. It is so _difficult_ to restrain himself from a thousand old habits of comfort with Leto’s presence. That he is willing to tolerate Leto's confusion and impertinence would be telling, if anyone else were here to witness it, or if Leto only remembered. He feels it in his best interests to quash those foolish tendencies where he can, lest he make other mistakes with greater consequences than the loss of one slave’s memories: he makes his voice harsh and implacable. "Animals do not wear clothing. If, or when, you choose to act less like one, then perhaps I will have armor made for you."

A startled intake of breath, and then that pensive expression he knows very well that means _Leto is trying to decide what to do._ "This is," he begins hesitantly, looking down at the sword in his hands again and seeming to realize of a sudden both that it is only a training weapon, and also far too fine for a simple slave to be carrying. "I-- may I ask another question, master," he breathes, trouble writ in his brow.

"Only one more," Danarius permits, injecting some irritation he does not truly feel into his voice, lest Leto think himself free to question his Master at his leisure. Secretly, he is pleased that they seem to have passed the difficulty Leto was having with acknowledging his place.

"--what is my name?"

With a wry smile, Danarius returns to his letter, and does not answer; Leto shifts uncomfortably, anger warring with prudence and, doubtless, fear. For as long as Danarius keeps his desk, the elf stands guard and, though he seems to experience a new kind of shame at his nakedness, he does not linger or halt when Danarius stands up, finished, and leaves his study with letters in hand. They are not simple missives to be trusted with a house-slave, and he takes them out into the market to be delivered personally to those who make a business of carrying the post for magisters, forcing the elf to trot along behind him. Leto makes no complaint, sword swinging freely from one hand, eyes alert as he scans the world he had forgotten and begins to learn it again.


End file.
